A Chemical Defect
by night.ixora
Summary: Set after "A Scandal in Belgravia." How I picture the rescue of Irene Adler went. A wrestle of dominance between Sherlock and Irene as they both try to fight their own attraction and get the other to submit.
1. When I say run, run!

It was more distracting than he liked. More distracting than he wanted to admit. After they had taken out her execution squad in a flurry of deadly and synchronized moves, he had grabbed her hand to drag her away from the man she was kicking viciously in the stomach with a streak of dark glee. As soon as he touched her, her head whipped around; her eyes wild, and her body posed ready to fight him off. Her fury melted when her eyes fell on his face. Another dark and wild expression took its place, and he felt a wave of delicious chemicals flood his body.

They were both breathless, but there was no need for words. He didn't let go of her hand once he had her attention for their retreat, and now he was starting to regret it. As they ran, she laced her fingers with his. He knew he should have let her go, but he didn't. Now as they ran at breakneck speed from the denoting bombed encampment, her thumb was gently stroking small little circles into his palm. Irene Adler was inexplicably an unbreakable distraction. A distraction he couldn't let go of because the miserable small emotional side of him didn't want to and because letting go of her hand now would acknowledge the fact that she had an effect on him.

As they crested over the hill, Sherlock pulled her towards the helicopter waiting ahead. The loud and fast thrumming of helicopter in front of them gave him something to focus on beside the Woman's circles. As they ran up to the side of the escape craft, Sherlock quickly analyzed his escape. He pulled up short and spun around to face her, quickly taking his hand back.

"In," he yelled, tilting his head sharply towards the helicopter.

Her face still held that fascinating dark and wild look that had invaded his dreams since he first met her. Her blood red lips curled into a secretive smile. As always, he could read nothing on her. Allowing annoyance to creep onto his features was not difficult. Grasping her exactly 34 inch hips, Sherlock lifted her into helicopter, and regretted that too. For a man so sure of himself, his thoughts, his deductions, his decisions, Irene Adler had a maddening way of making Sherlock regret and doubt himself. Trust the Woman to turn a black cover up into something sensual. Though it covered everything, the fabric was thin and singular. Ms. Adler wore nothing underneath. Sherlock actively blocked out the way her curves and warmth brought on another delicious wave of chemical response.

He leapt in as the helicopter lifted into the night sky.

The noise from the blades was a blissful command for silence. Sherlock stripped off the disguise swiftly, tossing the black garment out of the helicopter. Adjusting his black dress shirt collar with one hand, he leaned back, crossing his long legs and preparing an appropriately smug expression for saving her life. Irene regarded him challengingly. Her legs crossed, she was leaning forward, a scarlet thumbnail between her teeth.

As they sat unmoving for a heartbeat, her thin eyebrow arched as if asking a question. The way her eyes flickered over the buttons on his shirt made him acutely aware of the question dancing in her eyes on whether he was going to continue taking off clothes. Sherlock schooled his expression to blandness. When she got no response from him, she shrugged; her teasing smile never leaving her lips.

She reached up and lowered her hood; her dark brown hair falling in soft waves around her face. After running a hand through her hair, she settled back comfortably, meeting his eyes without flinching. Slowly, her sharp eyes crawled over his form, moving over his body in an unquestionable caress. Sherlock fought the urge to swallow the lump in his throat. Obviously saving Ms. Adler was simplest part of this mission, resisting her until they reached London was something else entirely.


	2. Dinner

They landed on the building top without incident. He reflexively scanned the roof, watching carefully as men emerged from the roof access. Climbing down from the craft he extended his hand to her, trying to avoid looking at her face. As she leapt down, he pulled her in close to his side, curling his arm around the small of her back and resting his hand on her opposite hip. He felt her lovely back muscles tense in surprise and anticipation. Sherlock kept his gaze locked to the three men approaching.

The turban men stopped a respectful distance away.

"Lord Cassel-Felstein," the front man intoned, bowing slightly.

Sherlock smiled and raised a finger to his lips, allowing his eyes to slide to the woman at his side.

The man nodded. "Your room has been prepared."

"Excellent," he murmured. Sherlock's eyes remained transfixed to her carefully hidden bewildered expression. His fingers stroked the curve of her waist through the black robe. A genuine smile rose to his lips as he saw her pupils dilate.

The walk to the room was an excruciating war between Sherlock and Irene. Her hand found its way to his back; her nails whispering over his spine. As they walked the halls, she pulled on his shirt collar, bringing his ear to her lips. "What role am I playing, my lord?" She purred, her warm breath tickling his ear. "Am I a doting wife?" He turned to meet her gaze, giving her a heated look and a lazy smile. The bubbling look of desire that crossed her face felt as satisfying as making Lestrade beg for help. For a brief instant, Sherlock saw the appeal Irene had in wielding sensuality as a weapon.

He kept his voice low and intimate for effect and hiding their conversation from prying ears. "You're clever than that." He watched with interest as she rose to the challenge, taking in the circumstances and analyzing with her sharp, bright eyes.

She smiled wider; her lips taking on a conspirator's grin. "Mistress," she amended, her voice curling around the word like smoke as she reached up to unnecessarily straighten his collar, allowing her thumbnail to stroke his partly exposed chest. He instinctively covered her hand to stop the maddening movement.

Reaching into his pocket, Sherlock removed the keycard and opened the door to the suite, pulling in the Woman after him. As the door clicked behind them, Sherlock released her hand and took three healthy strides away from her. He spun around, his hands in his pockets looking at her with mild interest, standing straight. Irene seemed unperturbed by the sudden change in demeanor. She only looked frustratingly amused by the whole situation.

"Staying out of trouble I see, Ms. Adler," Sherlock remarked as coldly and caustically as he could manage.

Her eyes narrowed, but her expression remained entertained. "Ah, the less fun Sherlock has come out to play." She kicked off her heels into a corner and ran her fingers through her hair. "Makes me feel so—" She playfully feigned floundering for the word before letting the black robe fall off her. "nostalgic." She shifted her weight onto her left foot, her body settling gracefully into a seductive pose. Irene eyed him mockingly, reveling in how her nakedness exposed so much more from others.

Sherlock forced his gaze to her eyes. "I doubt there is a safe that needs cracking, and I remember your measurements well enough."

Unruffled, she moved towards him with a feline glide. "I'm sure you do, Mr. Holmes." A wicked predatory gleam lit up her light eyes as she acknowledged his slight flinch away from her. "Don't you think it's time we had dinner?" She purred, gazing up at him through her lashes.

Suddenly, the carefully bland expression on Sherlock's face vanished. He regarded Irene levelly, a small triumphant smile working onto his lips. "Yes. Starving." He started forward, drinking in her mixed expression of surprise, victory, and delight, and resisting the urge to turn back and see her face once he had strode past her.

His hand was on the door knob and opening the door to a startled hotel staff member with his fist poised to knock. Without a word he gestured the man and his food cart in. As soon as the waiter's gaze landed on the Woman, he withdrew his stare in embarrassment, but couldn't help the way his eyes flittered back to her form as if magnetized. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw her standing in the middle of the room, completely relaxed and comfortable; her left hand on her hip and her right arm by her side. The waiter stumbled with the silver dish cover. "Your—" The man trailed off as Irene moved towards them. Shaking himself out of a daze, the waiter looked down at the dish without comprehension, his mouth opening and closing mutely for a heartbeat. He couldn't remember the entrée's name, and mentally groped for the dish. "—food," he finished lamely.

"Right," Sherlock deadpanned. "Thank you." He held open the door.

Flushed, the delivery man stepped through the doorway. Spinning around he shouted, "Boursin encrusted—" His face was met with a gently closing door.

Sherlock smirked and raised an eyebrow. "Hungry?"

Irene laughed and shrugged. "No. Let's have dinner." She moved over to the bed and took up the deep burgundy silk dressing robe spread out on it. She looked over her shoulder at Sherlock, who was already moving his plate to the small dining table. "You sure know how to spoil a girl on the first date." She murmured as she stroked the collar of the dressing gown.

He cut into the tender beef without looking at her. "Well, saving your life puts me well into the green for tonight, doesn't it?" He replied mildly.

She appeared behind him and leaned over his shoulder, her warmth and proximity distracting him from the piece of beef that travelled halfway to his mouth. "I should say," she replied in a husky voice, allowing her words and breath to whisper over his right ear. Her long fingers reached up and twirled one of his dark curls at the nape of his neck. "You've completely positioned yourself to get lucky tonight." She paused and tilted her head as if carefully contemplating. "Speaking of positions, I might even let you be on top." She pressed a kiss on his cheek.

Sherlock turned his head, meeting the Woman's mischief filled blue eyes. He couldn't ignore his physical response to her. The way the skin on the back of his neck prickled at her touch and the way his heart rate picked up at the way she whispered in his ear was a distraction unlike one he'd ever known. The turn of her lips told him she thought she was now winning this game, so he kept his eyes trained to hers, mastering the biology that wanted him to touch and taste. "Miss Adler?" He spoke stoically.

"Yes?" She breathed leaning in close enough to be tempting. Her eyes lowered to focus on Sherlock's lips. All he had to do was give in, lean in a few insignificant millimeters to meet the promise of her scarlet lips. Sherlock didn't remember when he had put down his fork, but his hand was now reaching up in fascination of a small, dark stray wisp of hair that curled against her pale, slender neck. He found himself wondering about the softness of her hair and how it would compare to the silken appearance of her skin.

The last time they touched he had been so focused on taking her pulse; he hadn't been able to savor the feel of her skin. Part of his mind pushed him to feel her, to experiment with the range of sensations of touch. His brow furrowed as his logic clouded. Just a small touch. Something to add to the vault of knowledge he used to analyze the world. His fingertips slid up her jawline, cupping her neck while the pad of his thumb gently stroked her earlobe. The pleasure from simply touching her sent tingles from his fingertips down his arm. Only when Irene let out a small breathy sigh, did Sherlock remember how close her lips were. His gaze snapped back from the soft skin of her neck to her lips, and the way the crimson lip stain brought out the fullness and succulence of her mouth. A touch, a taste. He could so easily pull her in. His fingers flexed from where they rested behind the Woman's neck. So simple to give in and satisfy the increasing curiosity that teased his senses.

Her small pink tongue flickering out to wet her lips nearly crippled his hesitation, but Sherlock realized she was no longer playing with his hair or touching him. His ice colored eyes glanced over his right shoulder. Ms. Adler's hand gripped the back of his chair firmly. His gaze followed her tense hand up her equally tense arm. The chemical fog cleared slightly, and he realized she was holding herself back. Her posture no longer screamed of seduction, but of restraint and control. He smiled, taking in the play for dominance splayed across her features, even with her eyes closed. She wanted him to buckle, to close the distance, to surrender his control to her manipulations. His eyes roved her face again; feelings of admiration for her skill filled him.

Instead of pulling her close he pushed her away slightly. Irene's eyes fluttered open in surprise. "Ms. Adler?" Sherlock continued. "Your dinner is getting cold." With a smirk he turned away from her and back to his plate.

She bit her lower lip to fight the pout at her almost victory. She could almost taste his lips. "I respectfully disagree," she laughed back before taking a seat across from him. "The heat is practically palpable." Her eyes danced with the thrill of the chase. "I will beat you, Sherlock. I've done it before, and now I am addicted to the sensation."


	3. The Look

When she first stepped into the hotel room, the solitary bed already had her calculating. Of course the bed was larger than her usual game room fare, but the fact that they would be forced to share it was a tremendous boost for her game of bringing the consulting detective to his knees. In a single bed together, she could coax Mr. Holmes into testing caress and kisses and more. A delighted shiver had cascaded down her spine at the prospect. Now, she stared at the detective sitting across the room and frowned. It was quite amazing and disappointing then, how fast Sherlock could render her lovely plans and plotting completely pointless.

Sherlock sat forward in the middle of white leather couch, palms pressed together with his fingertips resting in front of his mouth, eyes distant. He had been locked in that position for two hours immediately after receiving a call from Dr. John Watson. All she had been able to the catch of the conversation was the phrase "ginger league" before Sherlock had started pacing, juggling clues and theories in his mind. After ten minutes of frantic movement, he settled into a fixed position on the couch. When he neither moved nor spoke for the first thirty minutes, she knew he was out of reach, and there was no sign that anything would change anytime soon.

While he was gone, she had eaten and showered at her leisure, soaking up the decadence and pampering she had missed while captured by the Karachi terrorists. The warm water and perfumed soap washed away the despair of the past week, reclaiming the Woman that has reawakened when Sherlock had taken her hand. She allowed her damp, dark hair to hang loose as she padded across the room to check on her virginal detective. He remained still as ever, only his ice-blue eyes' rapid movements testified to his consciousness. Alone with her own thoughts and one of the most fascinating men she had ever met, Irene couldn't help but examine the pensive feelings that Sherlock stirred up.

She remembered his name coming to her in whispers. From clients to acquaintances, his name was on everybody's lips. She made it her business to know what everybody liked, and her own personal fascination with detective stories brought Sherlock Holmes to her attention. His adventures and brilliance danced vividly in the stories she heard about him, and she found herself a small secret fan before she knew it.

Then there was all that unfortunateness with Moriarty. She sighed. If only she weren't so keen on misbehaving. None the less, she was able to lure Sherlock to her door. With his reputation, she knew she had to push their first meeting together, ride into battle with all her best weapons. She had surprised him, but he had also surprised her. She had made the first impression, but her dear detective had quickly taken control out of her hands. She had barely escaped losing to him by a hair.

Irene had made a successful career by dominating the most powerful people in the world. Reducing rulers to submissive playthings was a morning exercise completed before afternoon tea. Sherlock challenged her. Demanded she use her mind to solve the mysterious death of the man by the river. He didn't give her what she wanted like everyone else. He gave her the tools and expected her get what she wanted. Her clever detective in the funny hat moved with deliberate purpose. He took in everything about a room and the people in it, and used everything to control events and people, including himself, to an exacting precision. Sherlock walked into rooms and dominated them.

Her eyes watched him carefully as she moved cautious step by cautious step closer. When she was satisfied that he couldn't see her wherever he was mentally, Irene kneeled in front of Sherlock, drinking in his striking features. His high cheekbones were still irresistible, begging to be struck. She bit back a smile at the memory. His long dark lashes framed his light blue-gray eyes. Looking at his face so candidly brought back their last encounter when he had deconstructed her so completely. She couldn't help the way looking at him, without the veil of desire or the dressings of marvel, brought up in her a naked sentiment. She liked him. In this quiet moment where they couldn't clash dramatically, she liked the things that added up to the man that was Sherlock Holmes.

Tentatively, Irene reached out. Her fingertips brushed against his cheekbone. No reaction stirred in the man that was a mental marble statue. Something relaxed in her with this private moment. Her fingers drifted down to his hands, still poised on his lips. Affectionately, she traced the lines in his well-worn hands, admiring the stories etched in skin of all the legwork his brilliance demanded. She placed her palms on the back of his hands, embracing his devotional stance with her own. She pressed a kiss into his ring finger on level with his pale lips.

"Thank you for saving me, Sherlock," she murmured, eyes closed and her lips delighting in the feel of his skin. She felt him exhale heavily. Her eyes fluttered open, and she leaned back.

"The bank, of course," Sherlock rumbled, his brow furrowing. "The break-in had to happen soon." He glanced at her without seeing her. "Behind the display case on the right side of the store."

Irene didn't know whether to laugh or to moan. For a moment she had felt like Pygmalion, incredulous at having raised a statue to life with a kiss. She looked again to satisfy her assumption that he was still lost in his own world. Watching and listening to the snippets that were brilliant puzzle pieces of the way his sexy brain worked recharged her desire for him. She let the feelings blanket her softer emotions. After all, sentiment was a characteristic of the losing side.

She settled into the space on seat next to him. He was certainly handsome, and she had bedded handsome people that had not captivated her in such a way before. Her body responded to his, appreciating his dark looks and sharp features. However, it was when she looked into his blue-slate eyes and saw the keen, ruthless intelligence there that she felt a foreign thrill. Irene knew the pleasures of arousal, satisfaction, and dominance, but in Sherlock's eyes she saw a beautiful chaos and challenge. They both saw each other in a way the rest of the world couldn't. That's why she wouldn't pass up the challenge of bringing Sherlock to his knees.

The silence was boring, and Irene soon dismissed the idea of resigning herself to sleep in the bed alone. She looked at his hunch broad back with fascination. Smiling to herself, she began to trace the curve of his spine with her fingers, alternating between the edge of her nail and pad of her fingertips. She didn't expect a reaction, but she sharpened her senses looking for any changes at all. Just as she was about to resign to having better luck pulling a reaction out of an actual statue, she realized Sherlock had stopped breathing. She hid her smile and kept her strokes languid, watching with fascination as he tried to resume breathing in a subtle way.

When she had let enough moments pass, so he could think he got away with it, she let her nail follow the trail from his spine to his ribs. Midway on the side of his chest she curled her fingers, her knuckles ghosting over his side down to his waist. From beneath his shirt, Irene could feel his muscles rippling as they tensed under her touch.

Her darling detective couldn't feign immunity as he turned quickly catching the criminal hand in a firm grip. He didn't say anything immediately, but his brows were drawn down and eyes were flashing and intense. After a few heated breaths, his lips parted. "Ms. Adler." There were hints of huskiness to his voice that made an excited sigh spill from her lips.

Her fingers itched to turn her hand, pull him towards her, and crawl on top of him. She kept her hand still though, so they could both pretend they had forgotten that Sherlock held her wrist, his fingers nowhere near her pulse. Instead, she drew his focus by biting her lower lip and keeping her eyes trained to his like an unrepentant sinner daring him to rebuke her. "Mr. Holmes," she said, letting the "r" and "s" roll off her tongue sensually as her other hand slid up his leg just enough to threaten his resolve without unhinging hers.

Exhilaration strummed through her as she watched darkened desire began to roll over his features like a sudden London fog. She had seen that look on many men and women right before they lost all semblance of control. The heavy lidded look and the slight part in his lips screamed of being on the precipice of the moment of no return. Most of her clients softened immediately after that look; their faces and demeanors becoming pliant and begging. But Sherlock._ Ah_. He looked like the devil intent on the claim, and there would be no softening of his desire. Her body shuddered with anticipation, knowing _that_ look was the one that got you thrown up against a wall or pulled down to a floor.


	4. Apples and Stars

Chemicals. Sherlock tried to keep that word the forefront in his mind. Only chemicals. They had both gone very still. He tried to ponder the similarities between the chemical rush he had here, staring at the Woman who could materialize a complex game from the mental acrobatics behind a small look or touch, and the adrenaline addiction he had to impossible cases and danger. He was almost able to convince himself he was in control. Then she tried to breathe in quietly, and the slightest friction of her fingers sliding on his thigh derailed his thoughts.

He took in her damp wavy dark hair and conjectured nothing about her recent shower. Instead, he only saw the tiny droplets collecting in her curls before they fell on her slightly bared shoulder and found himself startled by the very pressing urge to lick one off. The image flickered through his mind, and the most delicious cocktail of dopamine, serotonin and norepinephrine rewarded him.

A faint feminine moan text alert had Sherlock's eyes flickering over to table where his phone sat. A confused second past, as his brain instantly identified the sound as the Woman's message alert noise and warred with the logic that he held her in a firm grip. His eyes flickered down to where he held her and realized his hold was so tight it must have been borderline painful. His gaze darted over to Irene's face. Her eyes half closed and her bottom lip caught between her teeth; her features a decadent mixture of pain and pleasure. The images clicked, and Sherlock quickly realized the sound had come from Irene. Reflexively, he released his vise-like grip.

Her eyes fluttered open; a faint accusation in her stare. He felt the slight pin prick from her nails on his leg as she squeezed. "I've had enough of your teasing, Mr. Holmes," she said. There was a bite to the way her words were clipped.

Sherlock relished in watching her lose her ability to maintain passivity. Loved the small crack in her control that blossomed in her flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. As he quietly gloated, he tried to ignore his own building excitement at the way her other hand came up to push him down onto the couch and resisted the urge to grab her hips to pull her flush against him. A moment passed. His brow furrowed as his body waited, and Irene wasn't pressed against him. She hovered over him, balanced on her knees and hands. Sherlock looked at her face again, noticing her smirk.

His lips pursed. He felt his temper sharpen at the disappointment that the game wasn't over. Curious. Prolonging the game had always been the best part. "You've deceived yourself," he found himself saying, unable to keep the sneer out his voice. "I have no interest in teasing you. Whatever your mind has invented as me trying to tease you is wishful thinking on your part." His icy eyes scanned her face, trying to see how his barb hit its mark.

Only a small huff of laughter came out of her. "Oh, look at the poor man," she murmured. Sherlock's small spark of anger flared at the condescending inflection. "You can pull pigtails all you like-" She leaned in closer until her damp curls brushed against his cheeks. Her curled fingers lifted his chin up to keep eye contact as he tried to dodge the way her hair caressed his skin. Her thumb rested over his lips, silencing the retort rising to Sherlock's tongue. Unable to break away from her narrowed blue gaze, he couldn't resist as she slowly closed the distance between them until he could smell the hint of apple from her lip tint. "You're not getting what you want until you _beg_." Her last warm word flowed over his lips accentuating the near non-existent space between their lips.

Sherlock found himself speechless and craving apples with a ferocity he never felt before. His fingers flexed on the leather edge of the sofa as he tried the fight the intensity of the reaction. Inhaling sharply, he couldn't fight the groan that rose out of him when he flooded his nose with a stronger sample of her lips' apple scent. Irene softly shushed him. Sherlock couldn't help recalling the similarity to the last time she stood over him, gently hushing him in her victory as her drugging incapacitated him. Now, his own body was betraying him this time. Its chemical assault left him defenseless.

"Come now," she said. Her tone was low and lilting. "Being beaten isn't so bad. All you have to do is lose, and I will give you anything and everything." She accented the last words with a nip at his ear followed immediately with a gentle brush of her lips. He tried to fight the way she overwhelmed his senses by clinging to word "lose" to strengthen his resolve. Lose. Chemical defect. Losing side. Suddenly, his mind went exquisitely blank as Irene's thumb softly stroked his bottom lip, sending novel sensations tingling throughout his body. "You don't even have to use words." She lifted her thumb. Her mouth poised so painfully close to his; the invitation perfumed with the scent of apples.

Lifting his head up to her wasn't even a conscious decision. Her touch had magnetized his lips, and he was now inexorably drawn to her.

The sound of his cell ringing startled him upright. Irene squeaked as upward momentum had her straddling his lap. His eyes flew to the ringing and dancing phone on the table. "John." he blurted.

Her lips twisted into a wry smile. "Ah, your better half."

He scowled at her words and slid out from under her, dashing across the room to the mobile a little too quickly. Answering the phone, he kept his back to Irene. "Yes?" Sherlock said, unable to control the irritation in his voice. He could practically see how his terse tone had John's hackles rising.

"You okay?" John asked less out of concern and more of a warning in his voice.

"Fine."

"-Right. I guess I've interrupted one of your 'important' experiments." When Sherlock refused to dignify a response, John continued. "Just-whatever experiment has you in such a poor mood-don't bring it back to the flat. Get it all out of your system over there. You hear?"

"Never mind that. You're calling because Mr. Wilson has disappeared."

"-Lestrade called?"

"Course not. His disappearance was expected."

"Yeah-not following. Sorry-you said, 'expected?'"

"Yes, just tell Lestrade to look behind the display case on the right of Mr. Wilson's pawn shop."

"What-what does that have to do with anything? Sherlock, just come to the station and explain."

"No. Not for a five." Without another word, he ended the call. When he looked up from the mobile, Irene stood in front of him, regarding him keenly.

"A five?" She questioned, tilting her head slightly.

He cocked a brow. "There's no point in doing any legwork for anything less than a seven."

A sly look crossed her face. "Oh? Is that so?" He regarded her carefully, tucking his hands into his pockets. She only smiled wickedly, gliding up to him. She stood up on her tiptoes and laced her hands behind her back. "I guess it's safe to assume I am higher than a seven then." His lips quirked. "The real thing I want to know is how much more legwork I can expect." With that, she lifted her hand and brushed an invisible piece of lint from shoulder in a blatant excuse to touch him.

Sherlock frowned. "I don't expect any more trouble." There was a note of disappointment in his voice.

Irene traced his jawline with her finger. "Not what I was talking about," she said quickly and quietly. A playful smile bloomed on her lips, challenge in her eyes. "Would you like some trouble, then?"

He looked at her quizzically. He hesitated before he opened his mouth. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?" She looked at him expectantly her hand working through his hair in an idle affectionate way.

"Treat me like I could possibly reciprocate or understand your sentiments." His words were bland and cold hard fact spoken with his usually distain. However, there was a trace in the air; the barest faint hint of regret mingling with frustration in his voice.

Her hand stilled in his hair, and stressed crossed her brow for the briefest moment. Her smile was soft and reassuring as she shook her head. "It's just a game, Mr. Holmes." She watched his face for any reaction then dropped her gaze. "I wouldn't want to be boring."

"Yes. Of course," he said softly, staring down at the top of her head. He wanted to tell her she wasn't boring, could never be boring. Wanted to say she could create fascination with a glance and intrigue with a touch. She was singularly remarkable in a world full of dull people. Interesting, he never had any complications with saying what was on his mind, but couldn't put any of this in words that felt right.

She lowered her hand, and placed her hands at his waist lightly. Her fingers gingerly probed his waistband. "Let's say it's the end of the world." She hooked her fingers into his belt loops and jerked him towards her.

He hands came up to catch himself on her shoulders momentarily enjoying the way the material easily slipped through his fingers and the warmth he could feel through the thin silk. He forced his concentration back to the Woman's face. "It's not," he said flatly, but his heart was already drumming.

She clucked disapproving. "Use your imagination, my clever detective." One hand deftly untucked his dress shirt. Her other hand held fast to his belt loop, preventing him from jerking away. "An experiment." She slipped her hand underneath his black shirt, her palm pressed against his stomach and fingers whispered over the contours of his taunt muscles. "The very last night."

"An experiment," he echoed. He found himself mirroring her. His fingers slid under the dressing gown on her shoulder, tracing the shape of her trapezius muscle from the slope of her shoulder up the curve of her slender neck. He absorbed the way goosebumps rose on her flesh, and her warmth permeated his fingertips. He continued following the strong line of her jaw until he grasped her chin, matching the way she held him on the couch. Her lips immediately parted, eyes transfixed to his mouth. When he brushed the pad of his thumb against her bottom lip and felt the soft, giving heat, he felt his blood roar in his ears.

They stood transfixed, yet moving ever so slightly towards each other. Like two celestial bodies dancing closer and closer, impact imminent, all-consuming and devastating. If only one of them would give in. They were equally matched, fiercely burning stars, quivering with potential.

"Just a kiss," she murmured, pressing her lips against his thumb while her hand grazed his chest.

If either of them could have been cognoscente enough, they would have argued over whether there was a pleading note in Irene's voice, whether Sherlock leaned in those last few centimeters or she pulled him in. All the taunt resistant between them had their lips meeting in the most feather-light of glances. The feeling was so ephemeral that both were wonder-struck for an instant if it had actually happened. Sherlock took a breath and inhaled the ghost of apple still lingering on his lips. After that, nothing else occurred to him except getting a proper taste.

* * *

Author's note: Thanks to everyone for reading. This feels like an ending point of sorts. I might pick the story up further if I sort out a direction. Hope you enjoyed my first Sherlock fic.


End file.
